


In love with scent of you

by afterhoursfic



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Breathplay, Come Marking, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Scent Kink, but Geralt likes it and lets it continue, only that because Jaskier uses Geralt's stuff without his permission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27509005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterhoursfic/pseuds/afterhoursfic
Summary: Prompt: Jaskier is desperate to have sex with Geralt. One day he's masturbating to the idea and sees an item of Geralt's and just wants to feel closer to him so mouths at it while he climaxes. Then uses so many of Geralt's items to fuck, to plug and so many other ways, maybe he even dares to get off while sitting on roach when Geralt is out. Geralt can smell all this so waits until Jaskier is humping his clothes and then shows himself and jaskier is embarrassed but continues because Geralt wants him to
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 150





	In love with scent of you

Ever since he had first laid eyes on Geralt in Posada he had wanted him. He was weak for big, burly men who could choke him between their ridiculously muscled thighs, so sue him, but he had gotten nowhere closer to getting into the witcher’s pants as he had done that first time.

Despite suffering through long, sweaty hikes all day, rubbing blood and viscera and other disgusting bits from both of their clothes and not to mention the threat to his life, still, Geralt refused to look at him as anything other than an annoyance. His own desire had only grown over time and definitely had nothing to do with the very sizeable cock he had seen hang between the witcher’s thighs and gods if he didn’t dream of choking on it, feeling it split it him open as Geralt just took and took from him until he was a boneless mess, just a sleeve to warm Geralt’s cock until the witcher had used all of their famed stamina.

It was almost embarrassing how frequently he got off to the thought of Geralt, every night he let out a muffled cry into his fist as he coated his hand in his come after imagining just all the ways Geralt could use him, what he could do to him using all that strength and muscle until finally he sank his cock into him.

That’s how he found himself now, laying in their shared bed in an inn, cock in hand, already red and dripping in precome at the thought of Geralt walking in and seeing him like this, needy and desperate with the witcher’s name already on his lips so that Geralt was helpless but to get his cock in him, all whilst said witcher was out ghoul hunting.

It was like an itch under his skin, the need to be pinned down and thoroughly fucked into the mattress so he couldn’t think straight, wouldn’t be able to walk straight the next day, but as time passed his fist was slowly becoming not enough for him anymore, no matter how many fantasies he spun in his mind. He craved more, craved Geralt’s touch, his smell, anything.

Frustrated that he was getting nowhere, his cock still as achingly hard as it has been all night, and no matter what he does with his hands nothing helps, he lets out a sigh and stretches out on the bed in an effort to clear his head.

That’s when one of his hands catch on a bit of cloth, Geralt’s shirt he realized, torn half to shreds and faded almost to grey through use, he remembers the witcher saying he was going to take it to get it mended because that was easier than buying a new shirt apparently, but he can’t help but draw the fabric closer.

Geralt had been wearing it that day and had replaced it just before he left so as not to damage it further. He doesn’t know why but he can’t help but draw the shirt nearer, looking at it for a long moment and feeling inexplicitly drawn to it until he’s bringing it up to his face.

The first smell of the shirt has him grimace just a bit, it smells of sweat and horse, leather and smoke, and a whole host of other things found in nature, but which all come together to make something distinctly Geralt, and he’s quickly groaning into the shirt, his other hand finding his way to his cock as he begins to jerk off again.

There’s something distinct and real about having the smell of Geralt around him, almost as if the witcher could be there with him, imagining his lute calloused hand as Geralt’s sword calloused one, and when he opens his mouth to let out a groan his tongue meets the shirt. The taste is worse than the smell, but he can’t help but groan louder, his cock twitching as his senses are overwhelmed and he can’t help but suck the fabric a little more, to almost taste what Geralt’s skin would be like if he were to lick him from chest to navel and it’s that thought that has him coming with a muffled shout.

Once he finally managed to get his breathing under control from what had probably been one of the most intense orgasms in years, he had the fleeting thought that he still had Geralt’s shirt in his mouth, which now had a large wet spot of his saliva staining it. A million thoughts flitted through his head, all of Geralt in varying states of anger at him using, and likely further ruining, his shirt and he quickly pulled it away to better inspect it.

To his own mortification, there were some spots where his come had landed. Whilst he didn’t regret his actions leading to one of his better masturbation sessions, he couldn’t help but curse as he saw the white staining the black shirt, unmistakable to him, and even more so to a witcher with enhanced senses.

He didn’t even think before he brought the cloth back to his mouth, sucking out his come and leaving more of his saliva soaking the shirt, and much to his dismay he felt himself getting hard again, the taste of the two of them together was somewhat addicting but he didn’t want to ruin all his effort by coming on the shirt again so simply got up and chucked it in the bath he’d used earlier before wringing it dry and hanging it by the fire.

When Geralt got back later that evening he spent a moment looking around the room as if trying to see what had gone wrong in his absence, and where he was sat on the bed idly strumming his lute, he could swear he saw the witchers nostrils flare as if smelling the room, and he couldn’t help the feeling that Geralt somehow knew what he’d done, especially when he went over to the shirt still by the fire and shoved it into his bag, and yet Geralt said nothing.

The logical side of him reasoned that the Geralt he knew definitely would have said something if he suspected anything, maybe he was just tired? Either way, he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth and carried on with his strumming as Geralt washed up and then collapsed beside him on the bed.

***

It carried on like that for the next few weeks. He took on the responsibility of doing their laundry at the riverside, which earned him an odd look from Geralt the first time he asked, but ultimately handed his clothes over. The next ten minutes were spent in a state of debauchery, Geralt’s clothes littered around him and often he had a pair of the witcher’s pants over his face just to smell the sweat and musk that had collected over the last couple of weeks, even taste it, before he came over Geralt’s still dirty laundry.

He’d make a concerted effort to first lick his come clean, some part of his mind telling him it was more inconspicuous that way, that there was less of a chance Geralt would know before he washed the clothes in the river with a heavy dose of his soaps and oils. When he returned, there was a glint of something he couldn’t name in Geralt’s eye and he could swear there was a smirk tilting his lips as he took back his clothes, but he chose not to dwell on it and instead packed his clothes back into his bag.

It wasn’t just limited to Geralt’s clothes though. A couple of times when they were camping in the woods and Geralt had left for a hunt, he would sit on Roach’s saddle, left in the grass so the horse could graze for the night, and a couple of times over the night would ride said saddle, his precome slicking the leather to offer a nice glide for his cock which soon had him coming over the saddle horn whilst Roach nickered in the background.

When Geralt was on smaller hunts he’d leave his bags behind and he would take up the chance to lay on his bedroll, the rope Geralt used for his trophies around his neck and tightened with one of his fists whilst his other hand would try and finger himself, nowhere close to the thick cock he wished was pushing into him, but he was so desperate for anything that a few strokes against his prostate had him coming with a shout.

On one notable occasion when Geralt had come stumbling in, drowsy and tired from a long hunt and about ready to collapse from how drained overcoming his potions were, he took it upon himself to clean Geralt’s things. There were some empty potion bottles he cleaned, but not before he came over them with his face buried into the witcher’s back, the smell of sweat and something inherently Geralt flooding his senses, not to mention the slight thrill at the thought that when Geralt next took a potion he might even be able to taste his come, to know what he did and finally do something.

That night he also cleaned Geralt’s swords and when the witcher finally rolled over, managed to extract the knife tucked in at his waist, warm from Geralt’s body heat and he took one look at the leather hilt before he was divesting himself of his pants, hastily pushing two fingers into himself before slicking up the hilt and pushing that into his hole with a bitten-off moan.

There were a few awkward angles of the hilt that made it just a tad uncomfortable, but it was the closest thing to a cock he’d had in him since he started traveling with Geralt, and knowing it was the witcher’s as well, having Geralt snoring softly beside him, he couldn’t help but lean in to press his face into the other man’s neck and just lick at the hollow of his throat, to taste the dried sweat there and feel the heat of Geralt’s skin against him as he came clenched around the hilt of the witcher’s knife, face buried into his pillow to muffle his shout.

***

It was another week later when things came to a head. So far, apart from the occasional glance whenever he got back from a contract or returned from doing laundry, Geralt gave no indication that anything was different, that he knew what he had been doing. Namely humping and fucking himself with a variety of Geralt’s things and coming over them before cleaning in an effort to cover his tracks.

He thought he was getting away with it. It was the closest he felt to Geralt, intimate almost, using his things in such a way and it did ease something tight in his chest every time he used one of Geralt’s things to get himself off, but it also made the desperate clawing need for more, to have Geralt bend him over the nearest surface and ride his ass through the night, worse. But that was just something he had to get over himself.

At least that’s what he thought as he took their week’s load of laundry down to the river, several months ago he would have pawned this job off on Geralt, not wanting to deal with the ice-cold water and the incessant scrubbing, so he supposed it was a bit suspicious that he practically jumped at every chance to do it now, but he ignored Geralt’s questioning gaze and left a little too quickly towards the river, eager to bury himself in the shirt he’d seen Geralt sweat through as he trained with his sword two days ago.

That was how Geralt found him, face buried in the witchers shirt, mouthing at it even as he humped the rest of the witcher’s clothing, dick staining them with precome as he let out small moans into the fabric, always searching and desperate for more until he heard the low rumble of his name.

Immediately he was sat up, face already turning red trying to think of an explanation, eye wide as if staring down the end of a hunters arrow, waiting on who would make the first move as he watched Geralt stand a few paces away, hands balled into fists at his side and even from where he was laying he could see the witcher’s nostrils flare.

Before he could stutter out an apology, an excuse, anything really, Geralt interrupted, voice low and deeper than he’d ever heard it, rough almost, as Geralt told him to keep going. His hips gave a stuttering thrust into the witcher’s clothing almost on instinct and when he got a pleased hum from Geralt did so again and again until he was frantically fucking the witcher’s clothing.

When Geralt told him to mouth at his shirt like the filthy slut he was he didn’t hesitate to put his face into the fabric again with a broken moan, eyes boring into the witcher’s as he let out small broken whines the closer he got to his release and he spotted the hard line of Geralt’s cock through his leather pants. Gods he wanted, but it seemed Geralt was content to stand there and watch him debase himself by getting off on nothing more than the old, stale smell of the witcher through his clothing.

It shouldn’t have been as hot as it was but with gold eyes focused on him, Geralt now having reached a hand down to stroke his cock through his pants he was now having to fight not to come too soon, especially at the thought of licking the come from the inside of Geralt’s pants once he came too.

In the end, it was Geralt’s rambling that did him in, about how the witcher had smelled everything right from the start, could smell the come staining his clothes, his potions, armor and weapons, even Roach, and how half the time he was always half-hard, fighting the urge to push Jaskier's face into the dirt of the road or the nearest tree to fuck him right there, and it was with that he was coming with a cry of Geralt’s name, muffled only a little by the shirt still half in his mouth.

He collapsed back onto the ground, eyes never leaving Geralt as the witcher approached him and fisted a rough hand in his hair to lift him until he managed to bring his knees under him to kneel up, and suddenly he was met with the sight of Geralt’s cock, tip flushed red and dripping precome as the witcher held it in front of him like a treat.

He went to lean forward, to suckle at the head and get a taste of the witcher’s cock, to feel the warm, hard heat of him push deeper into his throat until he was choking on it, to lick at the slit of his cock to taste his pre until finally, Geralt would come over his tongue, but the witcher had other ideas.

The hand in his hair held him back and Geralt tutted, almost disapproving of his wet, willing mouth on his cock, but then Geralt’s telling him what a needy bitch he is, how he’s got to earn his cock first and all he can do is groan, his mouth open and tongue peeking out as the witcher starts stroking his cock.

Again Geralt began to ramble on everything he wanted to do, how he had even come on his lute a few weeks ago and he hadn’t even noticed and he felt his cock twitch at the fact, too soon for him to come again but he would definitely lick every inch of the instrument later just to try and get another taste of Geralt before suddenly thick ropes of come were painting his face, the witcher purposefully missing his tongue, and it was only when he let out a pitiful whimper that Geralt pushed his mouth onto the head of his cock.

He felt his body shudder and let out an unbidden moan as he felt the hot come pool on his tongue, quickly swallowing it before licking at the head in an effort to coax more out, managing to get a few more dribbles which he eagerly lapped up before Geralt pulled him away and made a show of rubbing his thumb across his face, smearing his come into his skin, marking him as he had been marking Geralt’s things, and fuck if that didn’t make his cock twitch again, but they would have plenty of time for that later, now he really had to do the laundry.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://afterhoursfic.tumblr.com/)


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